


Fight or Flight?

by Zzzara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anger, Angry Harry Potter, Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Cheating, Disguise, Drarry, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fight or Flight, H/D Hurt!Fest, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, Heartbreak, Heartbroken Harry Potter, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Fest, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt!Fest, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Infidelity, Jealous Harry Potter, Jealousy, Jewelry, M/M, Multi, Open to Interpretation, Rage, Secret Identity, Self Prompt, Song Inspired, Suspicions, conan gray - Freeform, conan gray song inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25049524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zzzara/pseuds/Zzzara
Summary: Something's gotten into youYou don't really look at me the way you used toAnd I'm hoping it ain't trueEvery single rumour that I've heard of you sayYou were off with someone that I don't knowCalling other people on your telephoneKinda wish I didn't know...
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 68
Collections: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020





	Fight or Flight?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



> [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger)  
> my lovely, this gift might come as a surprise to you. I am a great fan of your honed, subtle writing, and I hope that you - a connoisseur of exquisitely painful stories - might appreciate this little piece (and maybe even guess who it is from ;-)
> 
> This work is inspired by Conan Gray's song ["Fight or Flight"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYd-psJ3QLo)  
> You may treat yourself to this song before reading - it really hurts!
> 
> !!! WARNINGS: Infidelity, open ending.
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful beta [OllieMaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllieMaye/pseuds/OllieMaye)  
> for the quick, nice and thorough check-up and advice in the big little things that matter!  
> My love and excitement goes to the mods of this fest. Thank you so much for bringing this wonderful idea to life! <3
> 
> *Don’t repost/copy this work to any other websites without my permission.
> 
> *Disclaimer: all characters belong to J.K. Rowling and other rightful owners*
> 
> *The author of this work does not support J.K. Rowling's transphobic opinions.

**Fight or Flight?**

**I**

_Something's gotten into you_

_You don't really look at me the way you used to_

_And I'm hoping it ain't true_

_Every single rumour that I've heard of you say_

_You were off with someone that I don't know_

_Calling other people on your telephone_

_Kinda wish I didn't know_

**_[Conan Gray, '[Fight or Flight']](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYd-psJ3QLo)_ **

Jade. 

A glimpse of jade started it all. 

Blue jade flashed among his things on the hangers when you opened the wardrobe.

You didn't know what made you pause, but your hand was already reaching for his jacket. The dark green one. The one he was wearing yesterday for the meeting with his mother. 

Probably because jade just didn't fit?

If you had ever learned anything from Draco Malfoy, it was that ' _you have an atrocious sense of colour, Potter'._

He was probably right, for all you knew. But even you weren't that daft not to know that he would never wear this particular shade of jade with a dark green.

Your fingers brushed a delicate texture as you extricated the offensive piece of cloth from under the jacket—a scarf. It clashed with the green like a joke. No. He would never wear it like this.

Why was it there? Tucked away on a hanger under the jacket he was wearing when he left for the Manor.

"If she could, Mother would make me wear a tie and a high collar every time I visited her for tea," he said last night, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and ruffling his hair in front of the mirror.

"Luckily, she can't." He pecked you on the lips. "Are you sure you don't want to come? Her invitation always stands—"

"No, thanks. I have stuff to do." You briefly kissed him back. "Have fun."

He rolled his eyes and you laughed. You both knew you didn't have any pressing matters waiting; you'd prefer anything else to Narcissa's tea party at the Manor. And besides, no one knew about you and him. You were sort of _getting along_ at the Ministry. Even Ron and Hermione had no idea. Neither you nor he were even out. It was a tiresome game, pretending to be friends in front of his mother.

You stayed and he left. White shirt and green jacket, ruffled hair and the absence of tie. A whiff of his cologne still lingering in the air even after the sound of his footsteps faded away.

You brought the scarf to your nose and inhaled. Sweetness, softness, manners. Flowers. A dainty angle of a head, a diamond drop of the earring, a lock of hair at the temple. It was his mother's scarf, you thought.

You put it back where you found it and closed the wardrobe. There was nothing more to it, really. 

For some reason, you never forgot.

*

"What do you think, sir?" The shop assistant's refined voice reached you. 

You peered across the room at the piece of jewellery dangling from his fingers as he demonstrated it to a customer.

You nudged Ron, pointing in their direction. The two of you were useless in these things.

"It's her birthday, mate. I need something special, and… y'know—” Ron faltered, asking for your help this morning.

You knew. He'd got a ring and the anxiety that Hermione would reject his proposal, however ridiculous it may have sounded. 

"Don't be stupid," you said on your way along the Diagon Alley. 

"But what if she says no?" Ron squinted at the sun, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “What if a life with me is not what she wants?”

You rolled your eyes. "If Hermione didn't want you, she wouldn't be living with you all these years. Come on." You opened the jewellery shop door. "I don't know what kind of help you want from me, I'm not the jewellery type." You wiggled your eyebrows.

"Something special. You know…"

You knew. He was planning to propose on her birthday.

"A present."

"Wouldn't we rather be attacking a bookshop now? I'm not sure Hermione is into these things." You gestured at the dainty items under the glass that lined the walls of the brightly lit room.

"I always give her books." Ron made a face. "Everyone gives her books. Everyone will, even you, no doubt. I need my present to be special." 

He wasn’t wrong. _‘Magical Athens Through the Ages: Wizarding History of the Ancient City.’—_ the thick tome wrapped in bright paper was already awaiting Hermione’s birthday on the shelf in your bedroom. 

Ron carefully stepped behind the lush rose tree in the middle of the room, peering at the assistant and the customer examining the item. A dainty gold thing, a weightless web of strings holding diamond water drops that shimmered in the light from the chandelier.

"What do you think?" Ron whispered out of the corner of his mouth. 

"Dunno." You shifted behind him to take a better look through the bush. "Looks good."

The customer reached out, letting the stones pour against his open palm.

Your heart skipped. 

A strong, elegant hand with long fingers, his trimmed polished nails dully reflecting the sheen of the diamonds. 

You knew this hand.

Ron's frame still concealed the man's face from view, but you didn't need to look.

A white cuff of a shirtsleeve and beneath… a slender wrist enclosed in a plain solid band of white gold that cost a fortune. If he turned his hand just so—even from here, you'd be able to recognise that dainty shape of a flower engraved on the inside. You knew it was there. How many times you traced it with your fingers when he was asleep? Narcissus. His mother's namesake against his pulse. Right where the pink scar that once used to be the very tip of the snake's flickering tongue was forever etched into his body.

"What do you say?" Ron whispered. "Would she like—"

...

Last night he didn't show up. 

_"Busy tomorrow, sorry,"_ read the brief note his owl delivered when you were waiting for him for dinner.

 _"Might take me all weekend. See you."_ He never signed his letters.

His busy weekends were not uncommon. He never explained anything. He worked in the Department of Mysteries. He couldn't really talk about his job.

You never asked anything. You and he hardly were anything. To the world, the two of you didn't exist.

...

Ron turned, moving out of your line of sight.

You flinched at the image of the dark-haired stranger examining the necklace. 

"Wrap it for me, please."

You didn't need to hear him talk to know, but the voice made something drop in your guts all the same.

The man withdrew his hand, the band on his wrist catching the lights in a flick of the white metallic sheen.

"Excellent choice, sir." The assistant smiled, carefully arranging the thing inside a long, shallow box.

Oddly light-headed, you took a step back and turned around, quickly heading to the door before Ron could say anything.

"Harry?" He caught up with you on the street. 

"Sorry, I… I need to go," you replied, the words leaden in your mouth, and headed along the pavement, away, away from the shop.

"Harry, what?!"

"Sorry, Ron," you threw over your shoulder. "Go buy it for Hermione, I'm sure she'll be glad."

"Buy what?" He stopped, bewildered.

"The necklace… the one that guy was buying." You tugged at your collar, your face hot. "It's beautiful. I'm sure they've got a double in the shop."

"Alright." Ron frowned.

"See you, I'm… I just remembered, I've got some stuff to finish.” You itched to turn away and flee.

“It's the weekend.” Ron raised his eyebrows.

“The paperwork.” Trying a smile, you stuffed your hands in your pockets. “I’m so behind, Robards will have my head." You nodded at him and finally turned around, picking your pace up the street. 

' _Busy tomorrow, sorry.'_

_'Might take me all weekend.'_

He could just as well be buying it for his mother. But why would he need to disguise his face?

*

"What were you doing yesterday?" You poured the wine.

"Work." Accepting the glass, he made a face at you from the sofa. "I can't really talk about it. If you must know, I didn’t leave the office all day long." He smiled up at you, fair eyes hiding amusement behind his quicksilver smirk. "Come here." He walked his fingers up your knee.

You loved when he was like this, easy warmth softening his sharp smile. Once, you thought it would never come to this. Once, having him let you this close was all you wanted. And now he was letting you. Why, then, did you feel sick? Why was his innocent lie rotting your heart, turning the joy of his presence ugly?

Holding your glass in your outstretched hand, you carefully lowered yourself on the sofa, letting him snuggle into you with a contented sigh.

"I missed you." He tangled his fingers in your hair and rubbed his face against your temple like a cat. "You smell so good." 

His voice was a murmur, a promise of a languid night within your reach. Goosebumps were creeping up your nape at the lightest touch of his fingers under your ear.

"You'll be the death of me, Potter." He planted a kiss on your open throat. "All I could think of at work was you."

You sipped the wine and didn't meet his eyes.

*

**II**

_You tell me it ain't what it seems_

_But baby, this is looking like a crime scene, there's_

_Clothes thrown on the balcony_

_And you smell like a perfume outta magazine_

_I'm throwing all your shit outta my window_

_Telling you I wish that we never spoke_

_Baby, I already know_

**_[Conan Gray, '[Fight or Flight']](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYd-psJ3QLo)_ **

After that, it was only a matter of days before you found out. Before it all began to click.

_"Draco, darling."_

You stared at the elegant lines on the thick creamy parchment.

_"It has been a month since I last saw you. I know you are busy, my dear, but I miss you terribly. Do come for tea tomorrow._

_Looking forward to your visit,_

_Mother."_

The envelope bore the capital _M_ enclosed in the circle between the dragons chasing each other. And in the right top corner: _Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

You exhaled.

' _Are you sure you don't want to come? Her invitation always stands.'_

When did he last visit his mother? You couldn't name the day, but it surely couldn’t have been longer than a week. Feeling like a thief, you carefully folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope, sealing it neatly with your wand and placing it back on the table where Narcissa's owl dropped it this morning, barely a minute after he left. 

To visit her.

Your gaze fell on the wardrobe, and before you knew what you were doing, your hands were throwing it open, reaching among his things—to the dark green jacket. Under its collar… your fingers slipped, found the thin wooden frame of the hanger and stopped… then reached forward and wrenched the damned thing off, bringing it out into the light, only to discover that the delicate jade thing—the scarf—was gone. But the scent still lingered. 

_...Sweetness, softness, manners. Flowers. A dainty angle of a head, a lock of hair at the temple, a diamond drop of the earring…_

_'It has been a month since I last saw you.'_

' _Are you sure you don't want to come? Her invitation always stands.'_

_A weightless web of golden strings, pouring diamonds into his palm._

' _Busy tomorrow, sorry. Might take me all weekend.'_

_Narcissus. He flicked his wrist. 'Wrap it for me, please.'_

_‘If you must know, I hadn't left the office all day long.’_

_‘I missed you.’_

The silky black underside of the jacket gaped, mocking you.

_'Excellent choice, sir.'_

Cursing, you hurled the thing against the wardrobe. Rage welled up within you, sniffing out the first shock of betrayal. You wanted to break something. To lay your hands on his throat and squeeze until his eyes bulged.

The double doors of the wardrobe squealed in protest of dislodged hinges as you threw them wide open with a wrench. The first thing that caught your eye was his coat. You ripped it off the hanger, hurling it on the floor where it sagged into a thick black puddle of wool. A sweep of your arm, and several hangers with his shirts were sent flying across the floor. Another jacket—out. 

All the things that had gathered here in this year of you two being nothing at all. When the heck had he sneaked in so many? He hardly ever stayed the night more than twice a week. How the hell had he managed to fill your house—your life—your very guts—with himself until you're falling apart at the seams? When no-one even knew about him, about you?

His folded jeans on the shelf, the neat stack of pale jumpers, the black cashmere turtleneck—out, out, out! Reaching with your foot into the depth of the wardrobe, you sent the pair of black shiny brogues to the floor. Like dead fish, they landed with a thump, their soles ungracefully showing their perfectly clean underbellies. His Chelsea boots—out. You bent down to pick one up, your impotent rage reaching its crescendo as you hurled it into the opposite wall and finally stopped, your breath coming out in hard, shaky gasps. Clenching your jaw, you looked around, all the while aware of the tear that finally escaped the corner of your eye to roll down your cheek. Your hand jerked up to wipe it away. _No_. But another one was already chasing it down the path on your skin. _No_. You sniffed and exhaled and shook your head, surveying the disarray.

“Fuck you!” you said to the room and bent down to gather the heap of his clothes.

The softness of the black cashmere nestled under your jaw, making you itch with the memories of him outlined against the bright window. He turned his head, sunlight dancing in the disarray of his hair, even more pale and golden against the severity of the black covering him up to the chin. He looked breathtaking in black. You never told him. You didn’t need to. He knew. 

“Fuck you!” You growled.

He refused to go away.

Squeezing your eyes shut against his image, you stumbled out of the bedroom. You dumped everything over the bannisters, down into the hall by the staircase and refused to cry. Tears choked you, swelling up against your will. You refused to let them fall, striding angrily back, picking up the defeated brogues and Chelsea boots, one of them still lay mocking you across the room. Snatching it up, you dashed back, throwing everything down from the landing.

His leather wristwatch box, the pair of cufflinks, the hard leather belt—everything bounced off the floorboards and joined the pile of clothes as you viciously threw the items down, one by one.

More. Dashing down the stairs, you headed to the kitchen, throwing the heap of defeated things a murderous look. The fine porcelain cup on the counter exploded along with its saucer as soon as you set your eyes on it from the doorway. He liked it a lot.

_‘You may drink your tea from a mug like a barbarian, Potter, but I’m different.’_

You refused to remember his amused drawl, the quiet fondness in his eyes across the kitchen table when he was saying that.

You refused to think of his sleeping face, of his hair spilling over the pillow, of the way his shoulders felt under your palms when you came up from behind to run your hands over their hard, square frame. 

You refused to acknowledge the weird _something_ lodged behind your breastbone, making you weak every time he looked at you with that knowing amusement in his fair eyes. That precious something, suddenly cheapened, mingled with lies, something that had lost its value, turned fake, crumbled to dust in that jewellery shop the moment you spotted the bracelet on the stranger's wrist.

*

**III**

_Now there's someone at my door_

_Someone I've not met before_

_They've got eyes like mine_

_A pretty smile and they've been crying for a while_

_'Cause they also didn't know_

_That our lover loved us both_

**_[Conan Gray, '[Fight or Flight']](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYd-psJ3QLo)_ **

A sound startled you. In bewilderment, you turned your gaze away from the shattered porcelain and looked around, as though seeing your own kitchen for the first time. The air crackled with your magic, poised to snap in a burst of violence. At first, you didn't even understand it was a doorbell. Who the hell could it be? He wouldn't ring a doorbell. He never did. Before you could think, your feet were bringing you out of the kitchen, past the offensive heap by the staircase and across the hall to the front door. You wrenched it open.

At the sight of you, she flinched, a shock of recognition crossing her features. And something else. Disbelief?

"Hello?" You frowned. 

She was tall, your eyes at the same level. Long dark hair and elegance. Her face looked familiar. A light-grey dress. You looked up from her bright blue-jade shoes on the stone steps of the porch and met her eyes.

"How can I help you?"

She said nothing, just shook her head and made a move to leave.

"Astoria?"

Her face oddly blank, she turned, fiddling with her handbag.

"Astoria, is it?" you repeated. 

You vaguely remembered her from Hogwarts. But that was ten years ago. Everyone had changed. 

"How can I help you?"

"I don't know—" She shrugged. An odd, defeated movement that made no sense. Everything about her spoke of grace and high breeding; every movement perfectly executed, not a single gesture out of place. 

_Just like his mother,_ an odd thought dissolved in the ragged turmoil in your head.

"Do come in." You stepped aside, dully registering the sick shudder of your unshed tears that ebbed away along with the edge of angry magic seeping back under control.

She hesitated.

As she walked past you into the hall, it finally hit home. You thought you knew it all along.

The jade scarf, the dainty flowery whiff of a perfume, his absence, his evasive eyes, his frequent visits to his mother, his weekend shifts in the Department of Mysteries. The necklace. A weightless web of golden strings, pouring diamonds into his open palm; the waterfall of sparks sluicing down to kiss the secret Narcissus sign on the inside of his white gold wrist.

Did she touch it, too, while he was asleep? Following her into the hall, your thoughts were oddly detached. Did she trace her fingertips over the slender lines of the flower the same way you did?

She stopped abruptly, making you almost bump into her back. You steadied yourself against the wall. 

"Sorry." Your voice cracked. Your throat was raw, full of dust.

She didn't reply, didn't turn around, and you realised she was looking at the heap of clothes at the foot of the staircase. You watched the heavy spill of shiny dark hair down her back; her tall slender frame, the proud set of her shoulders, unwavering even in defeat. The sleeves of her dress enclosed the delicate length of her arms in grey silk. For a long moment, she stood perfectly still, before bringing her palm to her forehead in a tired gesture, as though trying to gather her scattered thoughts.

Following the odd urge, your hand landed on her shoulder, gently turning her around. You didn't know what you were doing.

"Those are his clothes." She gestured weakly with her head in the direction of the staircase.

"Yes," you replied, though it was not a question, and dropped your hand from her shoulder. "I'm sorry." You didn’t know what urged you to apologise.

"You don't need to—" she faltered and shook her head. “I just wanted to know who—whom he was seeing, I—” She winced but held your haze. “I needed to find out and… I did.”

You were close enough to see the gold specks in her deep green irises. Black silky eyebrows distorted their perfect shape on her crumpling face. In the attempt to bring her breath under control, she covered her eyes, refusing to break down. But the quivering line of her lips betrayed her. “I’m sorry.”

Swallowing your tears, you reached out, enclosing her in the circle of your arms. She tensed, and for a moment it felt as though she was going to throw your hands off and break free, before you felt the weight of her head on your shoulder, the silky touch of her hair against your jaw, the bitterly familiar, delicate fragrance of her perfume seeping into your senses, calming your frayed nerves. 

"Shhh." You tucked her head under your chin and stroked her hair. "It's okay." You didn't know what you were saying. It was not okay, and you yourself needed a good cry. "It's all right." 

Slender shoulders folding in defeat, her rigid form curled in on itself as your palm splayed over the plane of her back, pressing her firmly into your body.

Tightening your arms, you rocked her on the spot, all the while aware how fragile yet unyielding she felt. Narcissa's face surfaced in your memory. The arrogant turn of the head, a slight incline just so; her steady gaze, the proud chin, elegance ingrained in every move. They were very alike, you thought. Strength under the glamour of serenity. She hated this weakness, you could tell, and all the more so in front of you. Your shirt under her face had become wet. Somehow her tears were calming, keeping your own storm at bay.

An eternity had passed before she finally pulled back to look up at you with a frown. 

"I am sorry, Harry… I—" She rummaged in her handbag, retrieving a handkerchief. "I don't know what to say." She shrugged and noisily blew her nose and made a face, tucking the white piece of cloth back into the bag.

You shook your head and squeezed her shoulders, pulling her into a hug again.

"It's over," you whispered into her hair, and finality dawned.

It was over. For you, and her, and him.

The sound approached, crept up the front porch. You registered dully that you hadn't closed the door. Its soft click in silence cut the rest of the world away. Your heart jumped at the whisper of footsteps along the hall. He always trod lightly.

Astoria's head snapped up to look over your shoulder, you felt the moment when their eyes met. Her palms pushed into your chest in polite resistance. You opened your arms and released her, stepping back. 

Now. 

Crossing your arms on your chest, you slowly turned to face him.

He winced, his clear gaze froze in a shock of recognition, then slowly ebbed away to meet Astoria's eyes, only to slide away again, finally falling on the defeated pile of clothes near the staircase. Flush crept up his neck, marring his chiselled features, spreading up-up-up into his hairline. His face stony, he was staring at the floor, fingers worrying the band around his wrist. 

"Astoria," still not looking up, he said in a quiet resignation.

You glanced at her. Paying him no attention, she turned to you.

"Thank you, Harry." Her hand briefly squeezed the knuckles of yours fisted fingers that rested in the crook of your elbow, before she turned away and strode towards the front door. 

Her head held high, she opened it and walked out, the slam deafening in her wake. Silence.

You could tell he was staring. You didn't need to look. You never missed the electric touch of his gaze, the prickling it sent over your skin each time he secretly watched you. You cherished it in silence, holding close to your heart this secret joy, this knowledge—or maybe hope?—that there was a reason behind his stolen glances. You never told him, never let him know, lest he denied it, taking it away from you.

"Harry."

His voice made you flinch. He almost never used your given name. 

_Harry._ He whispered in the heat of the night, his lips crushed into your shoulder. 

_Harry._ His shattered face floating above you when he sneaked in to visit you lying broken in St Mungo's after the failed Auror mission. 

_Harry._ He called you once, brushing your hair off your forehead, thinking you were asleep.

Otherwise, it was _Potter. Potter. Potter._

Your gazes met. It all rushed back at you.

_'It has been a month since I last saw you.'_

_A weightless web of golden strings, pouring diamonds into his palm._

_‘If you must know, I hadn't left the office all day long.’_

_Narcissus. He flicked his wrist. 'Wrap it for me, please.'_

_‘I missed you.’_

_The glimpse of jade lurking beneath his jacket._

_'Excellent choice, sir.'_

_His favourite cup shattering into pieces._

_The caress of the cashmere under your jaw._

_You opened your arms, sending the things flying, landing into the hall in a defeated heap._

_Golden flickers of sunlight in his hair, his slender black silhouette against the bright window._

_Astoria's unyielding frame enclosed in your arms. The specks of gold in her deep green irises._

_‘I have a thing for green eyes,’ his mocking voice, as he rested his chin against your shoulder in the mirror. You once asked him what made him come to you._

_Diamonds sparkling between his fingers, scattering light against the band on his wrist..._

The beat of your magic in the air swirls up in a whirlwind of pieces of your shattered heart. Your pain is beating through your blood in a rush of violence.

_Fight or flight?_

_I'd rather die than have to cry in front of you._

_Fight or flight?_

_I'd rather lie than tell you, I'm in love with you._

_My eyes are welling up, as you admit there's someone new._

_It's my move:_

_Fight or flight?_

"Get out." You stare at him, grasping for the last shreds of composure. 

The air around crackles. Your wand is forgotten upstairs. You don’t need it.

"Harry." There's a plea in his eyes, but his voice is steady. He isn't afraid of you.

He should be. You want him to be. You are afraid of yourself.

"Leave!" you bark.

Your hands curl into fists as the immense effort of your will finally brings your magic under control. Sparks cease snapping at the edges of your vision. You might not destroy him now, not with your magic, at least. You still want him to regret it. You clench your jaw and, holding his gaze, move forward, the staccato of your heartbeat drumming against your ribs.

You think he will flee, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes a step towards you.

 _Step back,_ you think but hope that he doesn't, _It's your last chance, step back and flee._

He doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. You admire this. When did he ever back off in front of you? His jaw set, his chin rising, he _smiles._ Liar. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Liar. Everything about him is a lie. Even you, your house, his visits. His secret _Harry_ in your sleep.

Something shatters in you.

_Fight or flight?_ Your blood is singing. 

Daring you, he narrows his eyes.

Take your pick.

You don’t need to. When did you ever?

_Fight or flight?_

Your breath leaving you in a rush, 

you move towards him

and send your fist flying.

~ the end ~

**_I am on Tumblr:_ _[@big-draco-energy](https://big-draco-energy.tumblr.com) _ **

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> You are welcome to share your thoughts in the comments below.
> 
> \--
> 
> Remember to leave some love for the creator if you can! Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/) on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page!


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